


A Prince Worth Waiting For

by dioscureantwins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Angst with a Happy Ending, Baskerville is a lovely dog, F/M, Fluff, Princes & Princesses, dragon detective, random Greek mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 13:36:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3979954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So you think you can all come barging in here, kill my dragon, ruin my chances of a true prince rescuing me and do a disappearing act?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Prince Worth Waiting For

**Author's Note:**

  * For [afteriwake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/afteriwake/gifts).



> Happy HoImestice, scandalbaby. You asked for Molly/Sherlock and a happy, non-angsty story. I’m afraid for me their relationship is fraught with angst. Thankfully you wrote you would be happy with Molly/Khan or Molly/Martin. So I decided to write you a fairy tale with a happy ending and work in the frumptious Mr Cumberbatch in five of in his many incarnations. I do hope you’ll enjoy!
> 
> The amazing swissmarg was so kind as to help me. Thanks to her this has become a much better story than it would have turned out to be otherwise.

Once upon a time there was a princess who lived on a farm far, far away from here. It was a very large farm, with several outhouses, a large stable for the horse and the cows, a small stable for the goats, an ornate coop for the hens and a tower-shaped dovecote. The whole lot was guarded by a big dog that went by the name of Baskerville. Nothing escaped his attention and he was always barking at the cats that roamed the yards and the buildings in search of the mice and rats that tried to find a living for themselves in the hay, the cellars and the well-stocked pantries. They had beehives as well, and a huge orchard where they grew pears, apples, cherries, prunes, peaches, and – the princess’ favourites – apricots, that tender fruit which will only grow on branches properly espaliered along a south-facing wall to soak up the sun’s golden rays and are like an explosion of summer against your palate when you put your teeth into their succulent flesh.

Now I realise you will say that princesses don’t dwell on farms, no matter how impressive and well-endowed such farms might be. Rather, they tend to live in castles together with their parents, the King and the Queen. Also, they commonly are given rather imaginative names, like Fiordiligli, or Dorabella, or even Catherine, and I’m afraid our princess couldn’t boast of such a fanciful name for hers was Molly Hooper.

The very insipidness of this name made Molly often wonder whether she was in fact a princess, but whenever she raised the topic Nowan, the old woman who lived with Molly on the farm, smiled at her and told her, ‘Of course you’re a princess.’ Nowan never lied and she was forever reminding Molly to tell the truth, always, so each time Molly felt her doubts welling up in her heart she sought out Nowan for reassurance. 

“My darling little princess,” Nowan would say once a day at least, and embrace Molly and press a kiss on top of her head. Though she was always at work with the sweat running off her back, whether she was bent over her lettuce and strawberry beds, milking the cows, or digging up potatoes, her stiffly starched apron remained as white as freshly fallen snow. Every time Molly snuggled into her arms to rest her head against Nowan’s bosom she couldn’t decide what she liked best: the wonderful warmth that great mountain of flesh exuded or the lovely accompanying aroma of sun-kissed roses. 

In her books Molly read of other kinds of princesses. Those princesses lived under a terrible curse, which forced them to leave their Mum and Dad in the castle and go hide in the woods. Or they were locked into a high tower guarded by a horrible old witch until a prince on a white horse arrived to slay the witch and free the princess, after which they became husband and wife and lived happily ever after.

If, Molly reasoned, there were two different sorts of princesses, perhaps she represented a third variety, one who didn’t live at court, nor in a wood or a tower but on a farm where the orchards and raspberry bushes were the closest thing to a wood and the only tower was the dovecote, the top of which reached a height of barely fifteen feet. She spent long hours fretting whether she would meet a prince to marry, considering her situation differed so much from that of ordinary princesses, like poor Snow White, for instance. After all, Molly was the last princess on earth who needed to be rescued for she was very happy to be living together with Nowan. Also, princes tended to be quite savage, forever slaying the princess’ unlucky guardians – who were merely doing their job to the best of their abilities – in the heat of the salvation process. When she thought of her prince killing Nowan before Molly could warn him not to she started to cry and, vowing she would never read those stories again, closed the book and went to milk the goats or gather the eggs in an attempt to rid herself of the horrid notion.

Despite this dread, deep in her heart she hoped one day her prince would come. She already knew exactly what he should look like. One of her books was filled with the tales of a prince so magnificent and powerful that no one dared speak his name. Because of his high and exotic cheekbones Molly had determined it must be Khan, which was the name of the almighty sovereigns who ruled the lands that lie behind the mountains to the east, far far away from her farm.

Khan was a hero unlike any other the world had ever seen. He was more valiant than Hector, nobler even than the Black Prince and braver than Richard Lionheart himself. Rather than riding a horse he preferred to fly around in a huge spaceship on which the sun shone so bright the ship appeared to be forged out of the purest silver. His portrait adorned the first page of the volume that told of his many adventures, and what a magnificent portrait it was. His skin was as white as the alabaster delved from the mines of Volterra, his hair, swept back from the noble, high forehead, as shiny and black as basalt. Beneath thick brows and long lashes hid the clear bottomless lakes that were his eyes. His mouth was more beautiful than the lips of all the princesses in Molly’s other books combined and Molly had to fight the urge to kiss the paper every time she looked at it. One time she had given in and her eyes had glistened in disappointment when instead of warm, living flesh, as soft and fragrant as the petals of the big tea roses Nowan grew in front of the porch, her lips had brushed the paper’s rough texture, causing a faintly musty air to rise from it.

This experience, disconcerting though it was, didn’t keep her from taking up the book again the moment she was at leisure. For his voyages took him all across the universe, and in one illustration in particular he looked most impressive. The artist had drawn him jumping out of his ship onto a newly discovered planet with the flaring tails of his splendid coat flying behind him; the perfect image of graceful manliness. 

“Look Toby,” Molly would say to her pet cat. She had named him Toby because he was a tabby, but Toby was a cat, so naturally he showed little interest in Khan’s exploits. 

Now, reading all this you may have concluded Molly Hooper was nothing but a silly little feckless princess. I must rush to her defence and disagree. For Molly was a good girl, as ingenious as she was industrious, and very clever besides. I’ve already explained she milked the goats and gathered the eggs but she also churned the butter, cooked their meals and fed all the animals. Nowan taught her all there was to learn about the wild herbs that grew everywhere and Molly thought of many new and inventive ways to put them to use for the treatment of wounds or fevers, often mixing them with the honey she gathered. 

In their kitchen a huge display case took pride of place, filled with the carefully cleaned and reassembled skeletons of the mice Toby presented her with on a regular basis. Molly spent hours dissecting the tiny corpses, scraping the flesh from the tiny bones, cooking them, and reassembling them with thread too thin for the sharpest eye to detect. She had so much skill that when Nowan’s best-loved cow broke a hind leg and Nowan wailed they would have to slaughter the beast she told Nowan to stop her lamenting and help her set the bone instead. The hind leg healed, to Nowan’s great relief, and to thank her she gifted Molly with a wonderful present, a white lab coat that was an exact replica of that worn by the doctors in some of Molly’s books.

As Molly grew older she roamed farther and farther away from the yard. One day she was feeling especially daring and adventurous and she went out into the fields where Nowan grew the corn for their bread. She knew she was being naughty for Nowan had always expressly forbidden her to walk there, saying each had her task in life. It wasn’t the corn that held Molly’s interest, though, but the high wall at the end of the last field. Built out of rough stone blocks too big for a man to handle, that wall had been intriguing her since she first detected it. On several occasions Molly had asked Nowan what was behind that wall. Each time, instead of answering, Nowan started muttering darkly and throwing foul looks over her shoulder. This would continue for half a day and then she would press Molly into promising to never raise the issue again and to ‘never, never, ever venture near that wall, cross my heart like a good gal’.

Of course Molly promised but, inevitably, a few weeks later curiosity got the better of her and induced her to break her vow. At last Nowan lost her patience and shouted at Molly to stop her niggling. Never before had she raised her voice. Molly was shocked into tears but instead of hurrying towards Molly to comfort her Nowan pivoted on her heels and scurried off. That evening at tea she didn’t speak at all.

That had been yesterday and now Molly was more determined than ever to find out what was behind that wall and why Nowan didn’t want her to go there. As she approached the wall it appeared to grow in size, until at last she had to rest her head in her neck in order to see the jagged rocks adorning the top. At the foot of the wall she turned left and began walking along it in search of a door. The wall’s stones were warm from the sun but they looked so rough Molly didn’t dare touch them for fear they would tear at the skin of her fingers.

Suddenly, on the other side of the wall, there was a loud snort, as from a big animal. Molly drew to a halt and, after a moment’s hesitation, touched the least rough-looking stone. Another snort reverberated through the air, poisoning it with a stink as dense and sultry as the air that hung in the stables at the height of summer. The onslaught on Molly’s olfactory nerves nearly made her swoon. In defiance of the laws of nature the wall’s temperature increased rapidly, scorching Molly’s fingertips. Crying out in shock and fighting a sickening fear that was rapidly turning both her stomach and her feet into lead she backed away from the searing heat. 

She was only halfway through twisting and trying to make a run for the safety of the yard when an enormous roar tore at the skies themselves, seeming to rip them apart. Terrified, Molly stared at the apparition of a huge dragon that had materialised on top of the wall, perching low on its haunches, gripping the craggy stones with its long claws. The creature’s scales glistened in the few pitiful rays of sunlight that managed to thread their way through the dense smog of fire the dragon breathed. Rearing its ugly head and flapping its leathery wings, the monster sat looking straight at Molly out of the sinister yellow slits that were its eyes.

Frightened out of her wits, Molly whimpered and – panicking – attempted to hide among the cornstalks, though she knew this was ridiculous. She cried out when the horrible beast launched itself into the air on violently beating wings. 

“I am fire,” the dragon roared, bellowing flames and black smoke before lowering its head and settling its terrible gaze on Molly once more. 

She tried to scramble to her feet so she could run, run away as fast as her legs could carry her, but all she could do was stare in petrified horror, even as the dragon brought its salivating jaws closer with a sickly swaying motion of its long, reptilian neck.

“Get back, get back, you Smaug, you vile beast from hell!” Nowan’s clear voice rang out behind Molly. She came hurrying through the field on her thick and sturdy legs, Baskerville jumping at her side and barking so loud his fur appeared to glow with the effort. 

“Behold the Cyclops’ eye,” Nowan shouted, lifting her right hand. A bright shaft of light sprang for her palm, travelling over Molly’s fallen form straight at the dragon, which beat its wings threateningly and hissed at Nowan, breathing fire. Baskerville whimpered in fright and lowered his tail but Nowan just raised her arm to aim the beam straight at the dragon’s belly. With a roar the beast took to the air and flew off, still issuing threats, but Molly knew they were idle, thanks to Nowan’s great sorcery.

“Molly!” Nowan knelt at Molly’s side. “Molly, are you hurt?” 

Molly shook her head before throwing her arms around Nowan’s neck, fat tears of shock rolling down her cheeks. “No,” she sobbed, “no, I’m not hurt. But oh, Nowan, what was that? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“But I did tell you,” Nowan said in a voice that sounded infinitely weary. “I warned you to stay away from the wall. Oh, Molly, darling little princess of mine, you should have heeded my words, but I forgive you, for you don’t know what you did.”

That was all she would say, no matter how much Molly prodded her and nagged at her for an explanation. She kept silent all through their tea and later, as she sat knitting on the porch and watching the sun reach the last stages of that day’s journey. It wasn’t until Molly’s usual bedtime arrived that she lowered the needles to fix Molly with her gentle gaze.

“You may kiss me, child,” she said. Greatly relieved, Molly rushed towards her to grasp Nowan’s hand and press her lips to the firm round flesh of Nowan’s cheek with its myriad tiny red veins. The familiar aroma of sun-stewed roses erased the last traces of her awful meeting with the dragon.

“You’re a good girl,” Nowan smiled. “I don’t blame you. Always remember that.”

Upstairs, Molly stayed awake until she heard Nowan’s heavy step on the landing. Only when Nowan’s bed springs creaked their nightly protest did she close her eyes and let sleep take her in his arms.

The next morning Molly awoke early, feeling greatly refreshed. Purring loudly, Toby nudged her hand, begging for caresses. Molly laughed and, cradling him close to her chest, carried him downstairs, instructing him to make himself useful and catch her a mouse. Singing happily, she danced to the stable to milk the cows and the goats before herding them outside into the fields. The chickens had laid them enough eggs for an omelette at breakfast and a cherry cake for dessert. Baskerville jumped up to lick at her face. After drawing water from the well Molly laid the kitchen fire to boil a kettle for tea. 

By now the sun was already well above the trees and Nowan still hadn’t come down. Perhaps yesterday’s events had tired her out. A shiver ran down Molly’s back but she suppressed it in favour of setting the table for breakfast. Two minutes ticked by on the great clock that hung over the back door. Although Molly strained her ears so hard it frankly hurt, the upper part of the house remained utterly silent. The kettle boiled. Molly made tea, placed the pot on the table next to the careful arrangement of fruit preserves and butter, and made another round of the kitchen, throwing the ceiling nervous glances all the while. Two more minutes passed and still the floorboards of Nowan’s room didn’t creak. After another two minutes Molly couldn’t contain her impatience any longer. She flew up the stairs to knock on Nowan’s door.

“Nowan,” she called, pressing her ear to the wood. “Nowan! Wake up.” 

Nothing happened. The door remained closed and all that greeted Molly was a deep silence.

“Nowan!” By now Molly was thoroughly frightened and she hammered at the door with her fists. “Nowan, wake up! Please.”

She created such a racket that Baskerville began to bark furiously outside but still the door didn’t open. At last, swallowing her trepidation and preparing herself for a fierce dressing-down, Molly turned the doorknob and entered Nowan’s room.

It was abandoned. The bed had been stripped, the desk was empty. Molly hurried towards the wardrobe only to find that was empty as well. The great chest that had been sitting to the left of Nowan’s bed was gone. Every trace the room had ever been occupied was carefully removed, leaving it looking as soulless as the average guestroom. 

“Nowan,” Molly whispered. Then she fell to the floor and wept.

***

For a whole week Molly searched everywhere but in the end she couldn’t but assume that Nowan had vanished as thoroughly as if she’d evaporated into thin air. Once Molly had reached this conclusion she renewed her search, but now she started looking for anything that might inform her why Nowan had gone and left her behind, and even more important, how she could escape from the farm. For Molly realised it would be useless to venture near the wall again without protection against that horrible monster, Smaug. She combed the house, the stables, the chicken coop, the dovecote, even Baskerville’s dwelling in a quest for the Cyclops’ eye but it had disappeared, together with Nowan.

The days were already shortening when Molly gave up the quest and decided she should prepare for winter. Once the cellars and the pantry were full with food to make it through the long dark months when nothing would grow she could start her hunt all over again.

***

The seasons came and went and Molly had long since admitted defeat and stopped searching for clues and the Cyclops’ eye. Every now and then she would cave in to despair and spend an evening sniffling in front of the hearth with Toby sitting in her lap and staring up at her as if wondering what was wrong with his mistress. These days she rarely opened the book of Khan. Firstly because it was hard work running the farm all on her own and most evenings she was too tired even to read, and secondly because she no longer believed a prince would come for her, even if she were a princess. Perhaps Nowan had been lying to her all along, for hadn’t she promised Molly she would always be around? And yet she had departed without so much as a by-your-leave. 

Such were Molly Hooper’s musings as she sat staring empty-eyed into the fire. Truly, never before or since had the Earth seen such a sad and disillusioned princess.

***

One fine spring afternoon Molly was pulling weeds from the carrot and onion beds when the ground beneath her feet began to shake. Baskerville barked in alarm and the horse neighed in panic. All of a sudden, a huge tongue of fire leapt into the air, searing the heavens. This was soon followed by the heaving mass of Smaug’s repulsive body, discharging torrid clouds of smoke as poisonous and foul as the fumes that seep from the cracks around the gates to hell as he broke straight through the wall with the inexorable violence of a tank invading enemy territory. Molly began to scream and scampered through the rolling wisps of darkness towards the safety of the house. A roar of pain and anger ruptured the skies.

“He’s trying to escape. Come on, John,” shouted a voice and out of the swirling black mist Khan himself came running on those incredibly long legs of his. He ignored Molly completely to chase after Smaug, his right arm lifted high as in a blessing. Molly’s breath caught in her throat when her eye detected what he was holding.

“The Cyclops’ eye,” she whispered in unison with Khan, who was now yelling, “This way, John,” while carefully aiming the eye at the beast’s underside. 

A small part of Molly wondered who or what this John was but the majority of her awareness was spellbound by the stunning image Khan presented. He knelt down and shifted his hand until a sharp shaft of light sprang from the Cyclops’ eye, hitting the monster exactly at the spot where its belly lacked a single scale and penetrating the exposed flesh with the mortal fatality of an arrow. The dragon roared in agony, spun around as helplessly as a ship without a rudder on a stormy sea, and crashed down into the former cornfields. The whole farm shuddered at the impact of its body hitting the ground. Baskerville went wild, his fur aglow with fear and excitement.

“Got you,” Khan declared, leaping up from his crouched position with the grace of a black panther and swiping at the knees of his trousers. Molly clapped her hands, jumping up and down excitedly.

“Oh, thank you,” she exclaimed, edging closer through the whirls of murky grey smoke that still swirled around the yard. She was halfway through extending her hand towards him when she skidded to a halt. Now that she could take a good look at him Molly was disconcerted to discover the man wasn’t Khan at all. His resemblance to that most regal of princes was uncanny: the same high cheekbones, silvery eyes and – impossible but true – the very same pretty, pretty mouth, but his coat, though flaring impressively, was all wrong and – most distressingly – his hair was even wider of the mark. This man’s hair danced in soft curls around his head. Even though Molly would readily concede those locks were very attractive, they also were proof this man wasn’t her prince, but rather a toned-down version of the original. 

However, he had just rescued her at the risk of great harm to himself so he must be the right one for her. Molly tamped down her disappointment, decided her fate wasn’t so bad if she ended up being this man’s spouse, for he was handsome enough, and, as being polite had never hurt anyone, offered him her hand and sank down in a curtsy, bending her head at the proscribed angle.

“Thank you for rescuing me,” she murmured demurely, just like the princesses in those books she’d read so long ago always did. To her dismay, instead of reaching for her fingertips to reverently kiss them, falling on his knee and asking her to be his wife the prince looked down his nose, not at her but _past_ her, sniffed, and spun on his heel.

“John!” he hollered. Apparently, Molly’s fate was to be wedded to the prince with the most appalling behaviour in regal history. Offended by his conduct, Molly rose and lowered her hand. Yet she couldn’t help noticing he had a very nice voice, exactly the way she’d imagined Khan’s would sound; resonant and deep.

Her musings were interrupted by the appearance of the nose of a black car that popped up out of the last tendrils of smoke drifting close to the ground. The rest of the vehicle followed soon after, a sign on its roof declaring it to be a TAXI. One of its back doors opened and a small man jumped out.

“Great,” the man led off straightaway, heading towards the prince and planting himself in front of the taller man, every inch (never mind there were pitifully few of those) the epitome of righteous anger and exasperation. His hand came up to prod the not-Khan in the sternum in a gesture that was an exact copy of the emotions playing on his face. Considering the style of his clothes, which were far less smart than the prince’s dark suit and purple shirt, the man must be the prince’s squire, which made the nature of his address even more perplexing.

“How many times have I told you not to go gallivanting off all by yourself,” he spoke in a dangerously low voice, underscoring each syllable with a stab of his finger. “You haven’t got the gun and these are dangerous creatures. Remember what happened last time, in Belgravia?”

“But John,” the prince protested in a whiny tone, “he was escaping.” 

To Molly this seemed like a totally reasonable explanation but the small man just responded with a snort and a shake of his head. “They’re always escaping, Sherlock. And we always catch them in the end. But we’re doing this together, remember?”

The prince – Sherlock – glared at his squire – John, Molly corrected herself – but in the end he gritted out, “Fine.” 

Apparently this was enough to satisfy John, who continued, “How did you do it, by the way?”

“Magnifier,” Sherlock replied enigmatically. 

“Really? Fantastic!” John shot the prince a quick but totally sincere smile. The right corner of the prince’s lips twitched briefly at the praise. 

The sight caused Molly’s heart to make a strange little flip. So this was what true love felt like, she mused.

Sadly, the squire proffering his hand to her interrupted her delightful contemplation.

“Hello,” he said, in an agreeable manner. “Apologies for us gaining entry to your yard without your permission. It was necessary in order to kill that nasty beast. Must have been a nuisance, having that prowling around your homestead. My name’s Watson, John Watson, and that’s Sherlock Holmes over there. At your service, ma’am.” His hand flapped in the broad direction of the prince while his head gave a sharp nod. 

“Uhm,” Molly blurted in a most unprincesslike manner. Her eyes flicked to the prince, who stood observing the proceedings with a look of infinite boredom on his handsome features, then back to his companion, who was still regarding her with a friendly smile hovering expectantly around his lips. How was she to inform the man in a suitably graceful manner that the prince was welcome to trespass to his heart’s content, while he was likewise free to clear off and amuse himself elsewhere? 

In the end she settled upon a polite “Thank you. My name is Molly, Molly Hooper.” 

A silence fell between them and Molly asked herself whether she should add something; an enquiry after his general well-being perhaps. Her mind racked the books she’d read as a girl for examples of the required etiquette. A sentence that seemed fitting surfaced and she added in her kindest voice, “I give you leave to address me by my first name, seeing as you’re my future spouse’s trusted aide.” 

Before she’d spoken the last word she was already wishing the ground would open up and swallow her for that of course was the wrong tone exactly, unnatural and perhaps even haughty. Indeed the man, John Watson, eyed her with a bemused expression. 

But he obviously was very well-trained for he scraped his throat and said, “Well, it must have been a shock. We could all do with a spot of tea, I suppose.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Molly grabbed the offered olive branch. “In here, please.”

“Sherlock?”

The prince, who, Molly now noticed, wasn’t paying them attention any longer but appeared to be observing the steady trek of the bees between their home at the end of the orchard and the Mayflower rosebush next to the house, almost jumped. “What? Oh, has Lestrade shown up at last? Time to be off then,” he said and began walking towards the taxi. The driver’s door opened and a head wearing a cap popped into view. 

“I say, I’ve never made such easy money before,” the head commented. 

“John,” the prince urged.

“Sherlock,” John called out in reply. “Bit not good, you know. Our kind hostess has just invited us to tea. Besides, Lestrade isn’t here yet.”

“Oh,” the prince said vaguely. “What’s taking him so long?”

“He’ll come. In the meantime we all could do with a cuppa.”

“You bet, mate.” The body belonging to the head clambered out of the taxi. “I beg your pardon, ma’am, but this madman here—” (here the driver threw the prince a look that bordered on lese-majesty) “— has had me driving around for hours chasing after that monster and my tongue feels like it was left out to dry in the Gobi desert.”

Sherlock Holmes snorted and turned his back on the cabbie. “You can have your tea, if you insist,” he declared. “I’ll go and inspect that bee population first.”

“Oh no, please,” cried out Molly, running up to him and daringly laying a hand on his arm to stop him. “They’re not used to strangers and they’ll sting you and then they’ll die.” 

The prince snapped his eyes down to where her fingers were lodged on his sleeve and back up towards her face again. In a dangerously quiet voice he said, “Please have the goodness to let go of my arm.”

As quickly as if she had been stung herself Molly dropped her hand.

“Thank you,” the prince said. “There’s no need to warn me. I probably have more knowledge about bees and the best way to approach them than you’d be able to amass during your whole—” Here he let his gaze roam carelessly over the buildings, the neat beds in the kitchen garden, the rose bushes, the flowering wisteria that covered almost the whole side of the house and Toby, who coolly returned his look. “—dull existence.” 

“Oh.” The casual dismissiveness of his words stung harder than a slap in her face would have done. In that moment she knew she would definitely refuse to marry this man, even if it turned out he was the last prince walking the earth. Somehow his correction didn’t just sound like an insult; it was clear he didn’t even recognise it as such. Stunned, Molly stared up at him. 

“I’ll have a coffee, thanks,” Sherlock continued, still looking _over_ the top of Molly’s head rather than _at_ her face. “Black, two sugars. I’ll be with you in a quarter of an hour.”

“Oh,” was all Molly could utter, again. An embarrassed blush swept up from her collarbones; no doubt reducing her complexion to that of an anaemic beetroot. She was gathering the courage to tell him exactly where he could stuff those two sugars – except, unfortunately, the traitorous breeze decided in that particular instant to whisk a curl across his forehead in a most distracting manner, effectively leaving her speechless – when the fast approaching wail of sirens put an end to her endeavour.

The prince rearranged his scarf, pivoted and strode in the direction of the clamour. A car with a blue light flashing on its roof sped through the recently opened hole in the wall, soon followed by two others. The first vehicle drew to a halt a mere foot from Sherlock’s commanding figure – and oh, he looked so majestic with the tails of that coat swirling around those endless legs – and a man with a helmet of silver hair and a pathetic raincoat leapt out of the vehicle.

“You’re late, Lestrade,” the prince harangued him, thwarting the man’s chance to introduce himself properly. 

The silver-haired man cast him a wearied glance. “Suppose so,” he grunted. “Some of us have to stick to the procedures, Sherlock. It’s easy to be ahead of the pack when you can afford to dice with death. Why John keeps up with you is beyond me.” 

More people clambered out of the other vehicles. They began demarcating the area around Smaug’s body with yellow and white tape, swarming all over the field.

Sherlock’s nose wrinkled in a display Molly was fast becoming familiar with. “Then I’m glad to inform you he almost never does,” he asserted in a stentorian baritone. “Besides, you’re blathering nonsense, Lestrade. There was no danger for anyone except the dragon and that’s dead. You can start dragging the remains away to… wherever you take them.”

He was about to raise his hand in preparation for what was clearly meant to be a haughtily dismissive wave when his face froze in horror. Fearing an accomplice of Smaug had appeared on the horizon, Molly followed the prince’s gaze to end up on the innocuous figure of a thin man who wore a not wholly convincing look of self-importance. Clad in plastic blue coveralls, he was scurrying about the scene, directing people here and there and attempting to install a ladder against the dragon’s scaly flank.

“Anderson,” Sherlock breathed. Hatred and contempt mingled in his rendition of the name, rendering him almost human.

“Yes, Sherlock.” Exhaustion appeared to be the basic mode of Lestrade’s existence. “Anderson, our best dragon forensic.”

Rightly surmising his gaze spoke volumes enough, Sherlock clamped his mouth shut. Stubbornly, Lestrade pressed on.

“Look here. While we’re waiting for Anderson and his team to clean up we might as well do the paperwork. Otherwise you and John will have to come to the Met tomorrow.” Sighing, Lestrade drew a hand down his face before lifting his head to regard Sherlock in an entreaty to cooperate. Any other human being would have acquiesced immediately.

The prince was visibly wavering. To hide the unconscious balling of his hands he stuck them into his coat pockets but he couldn’t conceal the contortions of his mouth and eyes. Finally, he gave an eyeroll and conceded, “All right. I was going to have a look at the bees, mind you, which are far more intelligent and amazing then you lot could ever aspire to be. So glad you could make it at last. Long after the beast is slayed and the actual work done; just to start bothering me with your ludicrous red tape. I’ll have a look at your tedious paperwork if we must, but only to stop you from pestering John with the stupid twaddle.”

Molly expected Lestrade, who, despite the unfortunate raincoat, seemed to be a figure of some authority, to mildly chastise Sherlock, the way a much-valued elder steward would. Instead, he rearranged his shoulders stiffly, sighed, “Yeah, it’s great to see you too, Sherlock,” and shifted his attention to Molly.

“I take it you’re the owner of this property, ma’am.” He grasped her hand and gently pumped it up and down. “Dragon Inspector Greg Lestrade, New Scotland Yard Dragon Department. Apologies for the disruption, all damages will be covered of course and we’ll do our best to have the vermin removed as quickly as possible.”

Molly rewarded him with a neck bow and a demure, “Molly Hooper. You have served us exceedingly well. Thank you, Lestrade.”

Her tiny speech – though perfectly amiable – met with puzzled silence and an intricate jig of Lestrade’s eyebrows across his forehead. Eventually he put forward, “You’re welcome,” and let go of her hand. “After you, ma’am.”

Well, Molly reflected, at least he used the appropriate form of address.

Inside they found John already poking up the fire while the cabbie was monitoring the surroundings with an expression akin to fear. Molly’s collection of mouse skeletons and her selection of medicinal herbs hanging from the rafters near the fireplace seemed to particularly disturb him.

“Do you think we’ve travelled back in time?” he asked John. “You know, like that phone booth bloke on the telly?”

“Ah, another Dr Who fan!” exclaimed the prince. “I suggest you further this man’s acquaintance, John, and free me of the obligation to sit suffering through that drivel every Sunday evening.”

“Shut it, Sherlock,” John replied good-naturedly, spinning round and shaking the poker at the prince. 

Molly gasped in shock, expecting the prince to order Lestrade to clap John in irons and drag him to the nearest dungeon. To her amazement the prince shrugged and flung himself down on the old sofa, which Nowan had always deemed not good enough for the drawing room. 

“Coffee for me, John,” he tossed at his squire. Templing his hands in front of his mouth he engaged in a weighty contemplation of the cobweb, that Molly, to her dismay, now discovered dangling from the ceiling.

“Yes, Your Royal Highness.” John swept into a neat bow, his forehead nearly brushing the floor (thankfully spotless, as Molly had scrubbed it that morning). “Bloody great git,” Molly could hear him mutter, not wholly under his breath. However, the prince remained motionless, so Molly showed John how to fill the kettle with the water she’d drawn from the well earlier that day.

“Right.” Lestrade rubbed his hands, drew a sheaf of papers out of his left pocket and arranged the small pile to Sherlock’s head. The prince ignored them. Lestrade’s shoulders slumped a little and he turned towards Molly. “This is a fine place you’ve got here, ma’am, if you don’t mind my saying so. Are you living here all by yourself?”

“For God’s sake, Lestrade,” the prince commented from the sofa. “Save us your stupid attempts at civility and check out the washing up.”

Four pairs of eyes (Toby sat washing his face and Baskerville had remained outside) flew towards the sink and the one plate, one cup, one bowl and one knife, fork and spoon left on the drying rack. 

“Yeah, well,” the DI acknowledged the evidence. “We all know none of us have your powers of observation.”

A smirk that would have looked ugly on anyone else lit up the prince’s features. Infuriatingly, the sight gave another sharp tug at Molly’s heartstrings and she turned away lest she betray her emotions. It was so unfair that such an atrocious person should be so earth-shatteringly gorgeous.

“I haven’t always been alone,” she said. “For almost nineteen years I lived here with Nowan.”

Hands in the pockets of his trousers, the dragon inspector eyeballed her. “Begging your pardon?”

“I’ve been living here with Nowan for almost nineteen years,” Molly repeated a little louder.

“Ah.” Lestrade leant back on his heels. “Thought I hadn’t heard you correctly the first time. So your mother and father died when you were, what, eight? Was it an accident? Why wasn’t your case referred to the Social Services?”

“No!” Molly almost wanted to stamp her foot at the man’s obliviousness. “What’s wrong with you?” she cried. “I lived here with Nowan until I turned eighteen. Then Smaug attacked me and the next day Nowan was gone.” 

Both John and the taxi driver stalled their hot-beverage-making activities to watch the commotion. Another flush of acute mortification warmed Molly’s cheeks and for a tempting second she wished them all gone and herself installed safely as the queen of her castle once more with just Toby and Baskerville for company. The look of sympathetic worry on John’s face only served to increase the situation’s sheer intolerableness. 

“Nowan was Miss Hooper’s guardian, Lestrade,” the prince’s bored voice drifted up from the sofa. His arrogance was perhaps even more insulting than the dimness of the others. “Obvious. As ever you hear but you don’t listen.” 

“Sherlock,” John warned, handing Lestrade a cup of scorching hot tea. The prince took a gander at his squire, heaved a sigh of colossal irritation and returned to his inspection of Molly’s inferior scouring skills.

“The prince is right,” Molly asserted, bitterly. “Nowan raised me. I never knew who my Mum and Dad were.”

“The prince?” John and Lestrade asked in stereo, their eyes grown to the size of saucers.

“Yes.” Molly gestured at the prince, who had slowly turned his head on the sofa’s armrest and scrutinised her from the top of her head to her feet and back up again with those insolently sharp eyes that seemed to plunge straight into the most secret caverns of her soul. A shiver slithered down her back and she felt bereft when he took up his survey of her ceiling again. “Obviously delusional,” he murmured. “Hmmm, interesting.”

“Sherlock, a prince?” Lestrade’s baffled exclamation called Molly’s attention back from the view that was so extremely pleasant and yet deeply disturbing. John broke out in a curiously high giggle. “His Royal Arse the Prince Sherlock,” he spluttered. “Explains a lot, really.”

“What?” was all Molly managed to squeak. 

The DI whipped out a chair from beneath the table and gesticulated for Molly to sit down. She complied, perching gingerly on the edge.

“Ahem,” began Lestrade, reaching for her hand. “Please, ma’am… Miss Hooper, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. That man there,” he nodded towards the sofa, “is as much of royal descent as you and me.”

Stung, she snatched her hand away. “I _am_ of royal descent,” she informed him coldly. “Nowan assured me I am a princess and the story fits, seeing as I was locked behind a wall guarded by a monster, which he killed, just like all the princes do and… and—” Her voice dropped to an almost inaudible level. “He _looks_ exactly like the bravest and handsomest prince in my favourite book,” she whispered. “And he’s got the Cyclops’ eye. The only weapon that could slay the beast,” she played the best ace up her sleeve.

Rather than browbeaten, Lestrade’s expression took on an aspect of bewilderment, briefly intersected by a humiliating look of pity.

“She’s referring to my magnifier,” the prince explained with a graceful flick of his wrist that oozed decadent ennui with the world and everyone in it. “I used it to burn the dragon’s heart. Basic science.”

Slowly, Lestrade shook his head, sunlight polishing the tarnished silver of the hair on top of his head. 

“I’m so very sorry,” he said, with the almost tender caution of a loving parent. “But I think you must be mistaken. The last royals to go missing in these parts were the princes in the tower. That was over four hundred years ago and besides, you belong to the other sex. And you’re the wrong age for Anastasia, apart from the fact that you don’t strike me as being particularly Russian.”

“Oh, for crying out loud, Lestrade. Of course she isn’t Russian,” the maybe-not-a-prince-after-all-which-would-explain-why-he-was-such-a-blooming- _article_ scoffed. “Just look at the hem of her skirt.”

Molly peeked down her legs but couldn’t discover any nationality-betraying features on said clothing. The cabbie looked as mystified as she felt, but Lestrade and John didn’t bat so much as an eyelid, evidently accustomed to these enigmatic observations. The prince, meanwhile, huffed, and, after fishing a cheap plastic pen out of his coat pocket, began filling in Lestrade’s forms.

“So you’re saying I’m not a princess,” Molly declared hotly. “How… how dare you?” Tears of indignation threatened to flood her eyes and she blinked fiercely, for she’d rather be desolated by Smaug’s terrible wrath than caught crying in front of these callous cynics. 

“How dare you come here to insult and deny me the husband my birth entitled me to. And you—” Here she swung towards John to point a finger at him, baldly disregarding every lesson on princesslike behaviour Nowan had taught her. “—You called him Your Royal Highness, which proves I’m right and as you should, being nothing but a lowly minion yourself!” Between the four of them they’d got her knickers in a definite twist and she was ready to haul them over the coals, even the prince himself who, pretending to turn a deaf ear to events, lay squinting at the papers. 

“Bloody hell,” John chuckled, highly amused. “Please, Greg is telling you the truth. If Sherlock’s a prince I’m the Emperor of China. Don’t put any ideas into his head; he’s got enough airs as it is.”

“But China hasn’t got an emperor, has it?” interjected the cabbie. “Didn’t they chop his head off?” 

Everyone ignored him in favour of John, who snickered, “You could say he’s the crown prince, I suppose, seeing as his brother practically rules this country.”

Lestrade chipped in, “But thank heavens we’ve got a real queen to save us from Holmes rule.”

This remark, apparently, was more fun than a barrel of monkeys, as, after a moment of uncertainty, even the cabbie joined the merriment. The minute it took for the laughter to die down was easily most awkward of Molly’s life. At last Lestrade’s eye roamed her way and, after a last hiccup, he pulled himself together.

“Jesus,” he huffed, clearly embarrassed. “My apologies for my unprofessional behaviour, Miss Hooper. But I’m afraid the idea of Prince Sherlock is… is—”

“It’s simply ridiculous,” John elucidated.

“Right,” the apparently-definitely-not-a-prince declared, seemingly unperturbed by the hilarity regarding his descent and social stratum in life. Arrogance did have its advantages it seemed. “I’ve filled out your laborious forms, Lestrade. How about making yourself useful for a change and finding out whether Anderson has already managed to erase every shred of information from the corpse.”

Before he’d done speaking Baskerville began barking doggedly and the man himself materialised in the doorway. He was a terrible sight, bedecked from top to toe in reeking dragon gore. “We’re all done,” he announced, his gaze darting anxiously between DI Lestrade and Sherlock. The latter looked him up and down with an expression of utter loathing.

“How do you manage it, Anderson?” he enquired, disdain dripping from his voice. “Every single time. You’d even make a pig’s ear of a dinosaur, if I’d catch you one.”

Anderson shot him a look of hatred that could have flashed straight from the Cyclops’ eye. “We can’t all of us behave like royalty and leave the actual work to others,” he snarled, baring his teeth. Toby arched his back and hissed at him, front paw raised and ready to strike. John and Lestrade’s faces, on the other hand, maintained a hard-fought equanimity. Sherlock just looked bored and the cabbie nonplussed. But then, Molly had already determined that was pretty much the man’s set countenance.

“Well done, Anderson,” his superior colleague got out at last. “Let’s be off then.”

He handed Molly a card. “Feel free to contact me any time. I can put you through to people to help you find your missing… this Nowan. Also…” He fumbled in one of his coat pockets and came up with a leaflet. “Victim Support offers plenty of emotional care and practical information and you can reach them Monday to Saturday.” 

“And that’s it?” Molly asked. Her tone may have been slightly unprincessly aggressive.

“Uhm, yes. Nothing left for us to do here. We can inspect the dragon scene if you want but I assure you it’s spotless.” Lestrade sought confirmation from Anderson, who complied with a proud nod. Somehow this enraged Molly even further.

“So you think you can all come barging in here, kill my dragon, ruin my chances of a true prince rescuing me and do a disappearing act?”

“Perhaps you’d better hand her a brochure for the nearest mental institution, Lestrade,” Sherlock cut in. He rose from the sofa with a grace that was simply unfair and strolled to the door. 

It was the last straw. Tears of vexation prodded Molly’s tear ducts and she spat at him, “Shut up! You’re the worst. You’re a horrible person and I hate you.”

“He’s a psychopath,” Anderson submitted helpfully but Molly had long decided she wasn’t going to end up as the spoils of the war of contrition he and Sherlock were fighting and she pressed on, “I invited none of you and you can either stay or take me with you. I won’t let you leave without me.”

John took a dekko at Sherlock that plainly read ‘now you’ve done it’. Predictably, Sherlock shrugged and looked bored.

“But Miss, Molly, listen—,” Lestrade tried, attempting to rest a calming hand on her arm.

Molly shook it off and banged her fist on the table so hard the mugs rattled, tea sloshing onto the plastic tablecloth. “No, _you_ listen to _me_! I’ve been living here alone for almost a decade, and you tell me I’ve been living an illusion, which I will accept, but I refuse to be left behind. I’m sick and tired of this farm, sick and tired of no one but Toby and Baskerville for company. I’m almost twenty-nine and I want to live a little while I still have the chance.”

“But Molly. If you leave who’s going to look after the farm?” John countered in a feeble endeavour to make her see reason and – coincidentally – leave her in the lurch. “What will you do with the livestock? They depend on you.”

“I don’t care!” she shouted, banging her fist again to drive home the message. “Or I do,” she corrected herself immediately, thinking of the cows’ soft trusting eyes and the Billy goats whose ridiculous frolics never failed to amuse her. “I’ll think of something. Just, please, let me come with you.”

“I’ll look after your farm,” the cabbie spoke up unexpectedly. “My missus was born on a farm and she’s always saying how much she misses the life. And I like animals myself, dragons excepted.”

“Oh!” Molly clapped her hands. “Oh, thank you.” She reeled to confront John. “There.”

“Fine,” he agreed with a smile. “Now all you’ll have to fix up is a job and a place to live.”

“Those can easily be arranged, John.” Succour came from a totally unexpected quarter. They all turned as one to gawp at Sherlock, who declared, “She can live in 221C and Mike Stamford told me Bart’s are looking for a dragon pathology assistant. Miss Hooper strikes me as more than qualified for the job.” He slanted his head meaningfully in the direction of the mouse skeleton display cabinet. 

“221C? That dump,” the DI began indignantly. Anderson’s scowl increased. Perhaps he was a decent person after all.

“Oh no,” John hurried to assure him. “Mrs Hudson had it redone. Mycroft supplied her with something developed at Baskerville. Damp’s gone completely and the water bill dropped by half.”

These mysterious sentences had an appeasing effect on the elder man. “Fine,” he growled, “Mycroft knows what he’s doing, I suppose.”

“Baskerville?” Molly exclaimed. “That’s the name of my dog.”

“Evident,” Sherlock murmured, but he had actually helped her so she decided to let it go.

“Are we finally done here?” His voice had resumed its habitual grousing mode.

“Yeah. Molly, after you.” Sweeping his arm towards the entrance, Lestrade bade her to walk out first. 

Molly took a last look around the kitchen that had been her home for almost twenty-nine years, encouraged Toby to jump into her arms and called Baskerville once they were out the door. They squabbled a bit over who should sit where in the taxi but at last she was settled next to John in the back seat, with Baskerville between them and Toby in her lap while Sherlock sat suffering through the cabbie’s inane blathering about his great farming adventure in the front passenger seat. 

It was a bit different from being swept away in a chaise wrought out of gold or up into the skies in Khan’s silver spaceship but beggars can’t be choosers, even if they’re a princess.

***

The Mrs Hudson John had mentioned turned out to be the owner of the house where Sherlock and John lived. The house, 221 Baker Street, was divided into three flats. Mrs Hudson lived on the ground floor, in 221A. Sherlock and John occupied 221B, which was the bigger flat on the first and second floor. 221C was located in the basement. It was a bit dark but John helped Molly install pots with white pansies in front of the street windows, which brightened up the atmosphere of Molly’s tiny living room greatly.

By dint of being the owner of the flat they rented Mrs Hudson was Sherlock and John’s landlady, a fact she never lost the chance to remind them of. In spite of these daily reminders Sherlock treated her like his housekeeper, a much-beloved and esteemed one, certainly – almost a member of the family – but a servant nevertheless. He expected her to serve him his tea and biscuits, take care of his laundry, which meant she was forever traipsing to and from the dry cleaners as all his clothes were cut out of the finest and most expensive materials, tidy the flat and take care of the shopping whenever John was too busy to do so. When Molly pointed this out to her one day as they sat indulging in a spot of tea and fruitcake in Mrs Hudson’s cosy kitchen, Mrs Hudson blushed and smiled sheepishly behind her hand.

“I know,” she said. “He’s shameless and I really shouldn’t let him. But he’s a sweet boy at heart and John always tells him when he goes too far so it’s all right.”

Perhaps, Molly deliberated later, while watering her pansies, Mrs Hudson was the teeniest bit in love with Sherlock. That would explain why she thought him sweet, an adjective Molly would never have applied herself. Arrogant, yes, brazen, clever, daft, erudite; she could whip through the whole alphabet and not run out of fitting attributes but what she came up with once she reached the S’s was self-confident, smug, stuck-up (and sexy – ridiculously sexy, but she’d rather die than admit that openly). In fact, almost any adjective that began with an ‘s’ suited Sherlock down to the ground but most decidedly not ‘sweet’.

***

Regardless of Sherlock’s other, less endearing qualities, there was one thing he was astonishingly good at, and that was his job. Everyone admitted it, even people who actively despised him, and some days it seemed those easily outnumbered his admirers.

To her astonishment Molly soon learned her Smaug hadn’t been an exceptional creature at all but belonged to a natural species that was quite common in the British Isles, though Smaug was among the largest ever recorded. Smaller members of its family patrolled the London skies and sewers, which were a bit of a hassle, but most people had learned to live with them. Probably, with Smaug pounding the farm’s borders, other dragons had chosen to give it a wide berth.

Molly screamed the first time she caught a tiny purple dragon having a go at her pansies but John, alerted by her cries, came running down from 221B to send it flapping off with a squirt of water from her spray bottle. 

Still, the animals carried all kinds of nasty diseases and occasionally turned violent and began harassing people, breathing fire onto them or igniting garden sheds, or worse. Lestrade’s division had its hands full keeping them in check. Unfortunately, some dragons were also uncannily cunning creatures and that was where Sherlock came in. He pursued them unremittingly with blatant disregard for his own life, and, on occasion, even John’s. 

Afterwards, even before Lestrade had finished rapping him on the knuckles for his recklessness, Sherlock would pooh-pooh the actual danger they’d faced, except for that one time he was nearly burnt to cinders and suffered from smoke poisoning. He had to stay in the hospital for a week and when he first opened his mouth again his voice sounded like the dying croak of a frog that had been run over by a van. He used the restored faculty to insult the medical personnel and every patient in the ward and declare they all vastly exaggerated the peril he’d undergone and exposed his flatmate to.

In the end even Mrs Hudson told him to shut up.

***

Each morning upon waking Molly would jump out of bed in happy expectation of a new day. After those long, drudging years at the farm, doing nothing but waiting and grieving over Nowan’s sudden departure, so much had changed for her in the past few months she sometimes was convinced she would never be able to wrap her head around it. Now she was living in one of the biggest, most exciting cities on Earth, constantly surrounded by people and something new happening every day.

Sometimes the sheer number of people around her threatened to overwhelm her, accustomed as she’d become to having only herself for human company and her own voice to converse with. Early on she caught herself studying every buxom middle-aged female she encountered, in hopes one of them would turn out to be Nowan. Her sudden disappearance struck Molly as even more weird, now that she realised how many people there were.

DI Lestrade helped her to file the proper forms at the Missing Persons Bureau to start a search for Nowan though he warned her the case was pretty hopeless as Nowan had left such a long time ago. True to his words, all her efforts got her was a lot of sniggering.

“Searching for no one, eh,” people would say and gawk at her as if she weren’t the full shilling. Oh, people could be wickedly cruel. However, Molly needn’t, in fact couldn’t, be friends with every human being on the planet so she gave the unbelievers the cold shoulder and spent her time with the people who actually were her friends.

Some of her colleagues at Bart’s were awfully nice and she was quickly adopted as a new member of their pub quiz team. At first those nights felt like she’d entered the fast lane and she literally clutched at the table to keep her head from reeling with all the information thrown her way, and keep the mounting feeling she was woefully ignorant at bay. She knew nothing about the love life of celebrities, politics, history, the universe or eighties pop music. The third evening, however, a lot of the questions centred on old-fashioned farming implements. Thanks to her their team won by a landslide and Molly was celebrated as the uncrowned princess of eccentrically remote but ultimately useful knowledge.

Pub quiz fame usually spreads quite fast and Sally Donovan invited her to become a member of the yarders’ team. Their friendship dated back to the Yard’s annual barbecue, at which they’d ended up bewailing the misery of love, crying in each other’s arms. They may have been a little drunk at the time. Sally was entangled in a perpetual traffic light relationship with Anderson, the squirrelly dragon forensic. This, Molly thought privately, just showed love ran many mysterious ways for the idea of Anderson’s wife and Sally virtually fighting over the regard of that puny little man was beyond her.

Inevitably, once her contemplations reached that point they would focus on the one constant factor in her new life: the inevitable flutter of her heart whenever she was in Sherlock’s vicinity.

***

Sherlock’s and John’s business led to a steady stream of clients and NSY Dragon Department personnel trudging up and down the seventeen steps to 221B. Molly regularly helped Mrs Hudson with her ‘I’m-not-your-housekeeper’ duties – Mrs Hudson’s hip played up when she bent down to scrub the lino so Molly did that for her. Thanks to Sherlock using the kitchen as a makeshift lab for inventing deadly dragon poisons the lino needed a lot of scrubbing, so she was at leisure to observe the fact that nearly everyone took an immediate fancy to the _bloody great git_ (John’s favourite nickname for their flatmate was startlingly accurate so Molly had no qualms about adopting it whenever she felt annoyed with the bloody great git herself) right until he opened his mouth. 

Some of the things that came out were too atrocious for words and yet he said them, loud and clear. Even John, whom he obviously considered his best friend, was occasionally treated to a volley of highly ingenious yet scornful invective that sent John packing of his own volition. The front door slamming shut so hard the whole house shuddered on its foundations signalled they’d locked horns again and, once Baskerville’s anguished barks had died down, Molly sat waiting as quiet as a mouse for the sound of the door to 221A opening and Mrs Hudson creeping up the stairs to admonish her youngest male tenant, who was, deep down, such a sweet boy.

But dear God and all his angels in heaven, he looked sweet, he looked like one of those very same angels in fact, with those glorious curls and those long lashes fanning across those cheekbones as he sat reading the morning papers while Mrs Hudson served him breakfast. 

One day, when she was having more trouble than usual with her arthritis, Mrs Hudson engaged Molly to carry Sherlock and John their plates. Reaching around Sherlock to refill his cup, Molly’s upper arm accidentally brushed his hair and she almost dropped the teapot. His hair was so… so… soft, softer than the finest spun cashmere. It was incredible and she became addicted to the stuff on the spot. She wanted to run her fingers through it, bury her face in it, roll his head between her breasts and feel her nipples swell under its softly susurrating caress. She—

Sherlock flicked up his gaze from the small adverts he was browsing to nail her with it. 

“Tea?” he enquired with one superciliously lifted eyebrow. 

“What?” Molly squeaked, for she had honestly lost her bearing in a lascivious labyrinth where each turn provided her with a fresh vision of herself and Sherlock, locked in increasingly inventive erotic scenarios.

“Tea,” Sherlock repeated, tilting his head to where the teapot sat shaking in her hand. 

Her heart sank so fast she was afraid it would plunge all the way down through the floor, straight onto Mrs Hudson’s collection of Wade Whimsies. She realised he knew exactly what she’d been thinking and she could have wept with the humiliation. Instead she poured him more tea.

***

Not only did he know, he flagrantly exploited her despicable weakness. At Bart’s it soon became clear Sherlock had introduced her to Mike Stamford with an ulterior motive in mind. 

Bart’s was London’s most eminent research facility on dragon behaviour and evolution. As such an average person not acquainted with Dragon Control would consider Sherlock, who was better at catching them than the whole of the NSY Dragon Department combined, to be a most sought after visitor. Naturally, upon meeting the man in question the average person would quickly change their mind.

Mike Stamford was the only lecturer patient enough to endure Sherlock’s debilitating presence and until the day Molly first entered her new position as a pathology assistant Sherlock had been almost permanently banned from the premises. 

Apparently determined to make up for lost years he chivvied her relentlessly whenever he wasn’t busy chasing dragons. A few times she tried to make a stand and, in a voice trembling with desperate courage, refused to meet his demands. Those times inevitably led to the worst moments of her life. His face would light up and he’d step a little closer, right into her personal space, so she could smell him. And he always smelled so breathtakingly nice; she could have written sonnets on the aroma that wafted straight into her nostrils from between the buttons of the tight shirt spanning his chest. His voice would drop to an indecently low purr honed to entwine her in a confusing mix of patently false personal compliments and elicit her promise to provide him with whatever he required. 

She always fell for it… every single time. Her heart would do that quaint little flip and she’d hurry to comply with his wishes only to loathe her own stupid self when, having gained what he wanted from her, the curtain fell on the act and his usual conceited personality popped up again. God, she hated him and sometimes she even hated this new life of hers.

***

“Of course your Nowan didn’t lie to you when she said you are a princess,” Mrs Hudson reassured her over a glass of red wine one day. They were ensconced in front of the telly with a bowl of nibbles and the bottle at hand, Baskerville snoring at their feet and Toby purring contentedly in Molly’s lap. The film they’d set out to watch was a romance involving a lady and a gardener’s son. The poor boy was accused of raping someone by the lady’s own sister, so the actual criminal, who was an aristocratic creep, got off scot free. Soon after Mrs Hudson had snorted dismissively and lowered the volume. 

“From what you’ve told me Nowan was the sweetest woman in the world and she wouldn’t want to hurt you. In the end we’re all princesses and men ought to treat us as such.”

“But they don’t,” Molly complained. “He uses us like a pair of Cinderellas. And from what you told me about Mr Hudson he was just as bad.”

“Oh yes.” Amazingly, considering the fact the man had plotted her murder, Mrs Hudson’s eyes always started swimming a bit at the mention of her former husband. “Dear Frank,” she mused. “The things we do for love. But they’re men, you know. They can’t help being what they are. You need to coddle them a bit.”

Sally Donovan didn’t agree with Mrs Hudson. “Men,” she’d spit over her coffee during a lunch break meeting, in a tone so venomous people at the neighbouring tables raised their heads in alarm. These she regally ignored. “They’re all good for nothing and that Freak is the biggest arsehole of them all. Imagine you thought him a prince! I totally get it, given your background, but really. Christ, he’s already lording it over us enough as it is. Insufferable _twat_!” 

At this point Sally’s teeth would generally start tearing at her sandwich, as if the innocent foodstuff had somehow miraculously turned into Sherlock’s body itself. She’d never told Molly what bones exactly she had to pick with Sherlock, but, having observed their interactions a few times, Molly could easily guess why Sally could eat him alive. Incidentally, this also explained her semi-crush on that most unlikely of crushees.

She just hoped she’d never succumb to such bitterness, though she was by now sure she’d end up a spinster. But she’d rather be caught dead than complaining. Better to suffer in dignified silence. She had Toby and Baskerville and Mrs Hudson and John and Sally and DI Lestrade and Mike Stamford and lots of other lovely friends, more than she’d ever deemed possible. She had an interesting job and a very nice flat. That was already more than lots of people got in their whole lives. Every night she rested her head on a pillow close to the object of her devotion. True, he paid less attention to her than to his doormat but even that was a kind of relationship. Those dreams of her prince coming to fetch her and marry her she’d indulged in as a girl had been plain silly, she was ready to admit that now.

***

Two times a day Molly took Baskerville for a long walk in Regent’s Park. The poor animal was the only one not to have profited from their move to the city. Toby was growing lazy and complacent on a diet of pricy cat food, so much so that when Molly’s bedroom was once invaded by a tiny dragon no bigger than a mouse, Toby didn’t deem it worthy of a look. Molly herself was never going back to the farm, not even if Nowan herself would somehow miraculously return and ask her to. 

Baskerville, however, mourned his former life like a paradise lost. 

“Oh dear, his eyes could melt a heart of stone,” Mrs Hudson would say distractedly while fondling him behind his ears. Baskerville rewarded her attentions with a soft whimper and lick of her hand, his gaze steadfastly imploring Molly to please take him back to his farmyard so he could go chasing the cats again. 

“Oh, darling Baskerville,” Molly would sigh, hugging the soft reddish fur of his neck. “Why don’t you try and be happy here, with all your dog friends in the park.” 

One time Sherlock and John caught them joined thus in the hallway. Sherlock snorted and dropped some hatefully dismissive comment about dumb animals but John took pity on Baskerville and suggested they take him on a regular outing to Hampstead Heath. These weekly walks appeared to appease Baskerville somewhat with his new life. 

***

A whole year had gone by and spring arrived once more. A gently undulating lake of lilac crocuses awaited Molly and Baskerville at the park that morning. Molly exclaimed at the beautiful sight and Baskerville barked his appreciation. 

“If only Nowan could have seen this,” Molly said to him and their gazes locked in mutual understanding. She unleashed him and he ran off, jumping joyfully into the air.

There were very few people about and the air seemed relatively empty of dragons. Molly caught a pair of them scuffling in the undergrowth but they fled at her approach. It was such a fine morning Molly decided to head for Primrose Hill to enjoy the view of the London skyline. That vast ocean of buildings stretching away at her feet still took her breath away.

The top of the hill was completely empty, a happy occurrence Molly had never before encountered. Exhilarated, she sprinted up and down the hill a few times, with Baskerville elatedly barking and bouncing around her legs. At last she collapsed on the damp grass, heaving for breath, at the same time exultant and exhausted, and giggling with the abandon of an eight-year-old. Baskerville flopped down beside her and she snuggled up against him.

“London can be nice, see?” she hummed. Baskerville just panted in reply before turning and giving her a long lick across her cheek. This she took for a yes and she patted his back. Together they lay staring into the distance.

Suddenly Baskerville leapt up, barking furiously. 

“What is it?” Molly asked. She hadn’t seen Baskerville so excited since Sherlock chased Smaug across the fields. “What are you barking for?” 

Of course he didn’t answer but just kept barking like mad. She followed his gaze and threw up her hand in front of her mouth in shock. Spiralling towards them out of the sky came a silver spaceship surrounded by a great rolling mass of smoke.

“Oh, Christ,” Molly spluttered and looked on in horror. Had her dream, that beautiful sacred fantasy she’d hidden bravely within the tiniest chamber of her heart, finally been about to come true, only for Khan to be burned in front of her eyes with her watching helplessly as her prince and hero was consumed by the flames? 

Molly buried her face in her hands and wept tears that were bitter and warm with despair.  
Beside her Baskerville kept barking and barking, adding to her grief. 

“Oh, stop it,” Molly moaned. “Please, Baskerville.”

She wanted to tear herself away, turn her back on the hateful sight and run, run until her legs gave out and then she wanted to shrivel up and die. But she was helpless to move, her legs were chained to the earth with invisible heavy irons. All she could do was sob into her hands and wait for the impact of the ship to shake the ground and the great whoosh of the all-consuming explosion.

Molly’s throat choked on the thick billows of foul smoke as the ship sailed over her head at perhaps a hundred feet. She screwed her eyes shut tighter in preparation for the inevitable outcome.

Nothing happened. 

When she dared look in the direction the ship had travelled, she discovered it was still intact, sitting in the grass some three hundred feet from her. A trail of smoke billowed out from it, the clouds even denser than they’d been when the ship was still hurtling down towards the ground but otherwise it seemed intact. Now it wasn’t moving any longer and at close quarters Molly saw it wasn’t a spaceship at all but a middling to small aeroplane. Suppressing her disappointment, Molly levered herself to her feet and – chains magically having dissolved – dashed towards the plane to see whether the people inside it needed help.

She’d nearly drawn up to it when the door was thrown wide open, releasing another black mass of smoke towards her. Molly coughed and gasped; the fumes were even fouler than Smaug’s breath and she felt so light-headed she feared they had poisoned her. The sound of a human voice roused her from her nausea.

“I don’t understand, Skip,” it said. “The last time I made dragon fruit upside-down cake it didn’t smoke nearly as much.”

A small man in a red shirt and a neat little apron sporting soot-covered teddy bears dripping with what looked like cake batter appeared in the doorway. 

“Hello,” he said. “I’m Arthur. Would you like some of what’s left of today’s specialty? It was dragon fruit upside-down cake before it caught fire.”

“No, thank you,” replied Molly, squinting up at him. “Are you all right in there, do you need help?”

“There’s a very nice lady here who wants to know whether we’re all right, Skip?” the man bellowed into the aeroplane’s interior. Turning back to Molly, he confessed in an undertone, “Skip isn’t best pleased right now. Mum made him fly to and from Amsterdam without Douglas, which is against the rules, and Martin is a bit of a stickler for those, you know?”

“Not really,” Molly answered, still with her head in her neck and shielding her eyes against the sun that had managed to break through the black clouds slowly dissipating into the clean air. “Do you think you can come down? I’m not quite sure it’s safe in there.”

“What’s the slide doing in the pantry, Arthur? Oh God, you got it all covered with your disgusting cake.” Another voice drifted down from the plane. Molly’s hands dropped together with her lower jaw for the voice was Sherlock’s, whom she’d supposed to be currently snoring snugly in his bedroom as she’d been woken up around three that night by the sounds of the front door slamming shut and John and Sherlock climbing the stairs meshed in yet another heated argument on the benefits versus nuisances of safety procedures while chasing dragons.

“What are you doing up there?” she squawked. 

“Waiting for Skip to find the slide,” the man with the teddy bear apron answered, rolling his eyes at the question’s stupidity. Molly balanced on the tip of her toes in a vain attempt to look past him into the plane.

“Now it’s all over my uniform,” Sherlock complained, his voice coming nearer.

A shock of red hair, flaming as bright and flamboyant as the rising sun, appeared in the doorway, soon followed by the rest of another small man dressed in an airline captain’s uniform covered in sticky gore and lugging a huge package. 

“Help me with this, Arthur,” he gasped, in what was still Sherlock’s voice. His next words proved he hadn’t magically shrunk himself and coloured his hair for they were, “Oh, Carolyn is going to skin me alive.” 

Still complaining, he and Arthur wrestled with the package. “I’ll be with you in a moment, ma’am,” the redheaded man continued. “Captain Martin Crieff, at your service. As the captain of this aircraft I need to make sure all the passengers are safely disembarked, even if it’s just Arthur and me.”

With a loud pop the package suddenly opened, the force of the tiny explosion hurtling the two men back into the plane. Baskerville barked and his fur began to glow. 

“Ssh,” Molly shushed him, “it’s fine.” Baskerville ignored her and continued to bark.

“Stand back, ma’am,” the captain’s deep voice shouted over the din. He was back in the doorway again, pulling at something. It turned out to be a kind of air mattress. Together with Arthur he pushed it out of the plane and they fell to their knees to attach one end of the mattress to the aircraft’s floor with the help of strips that bore a suspicious resemblance to duct tape. 

“There, Skip,” Arthur cried out in triumph after having mangaged to shake his last strip from his fingers.

“Wait a moment, Arthur,” Captain Crieff grumbled. “This strip isn’t attached properly yet. Safety procedure…” Unfortunately the other man ignored his superior rank to throw himself belly-down onto the makeshift slide and surf down it with the abandon of a five-year-old who’s just discovered the slide in the swimming pool.

“Yoohoo,” he yelled at the top of his voice. Molly quickly stepped aside and in doing so she happened to look up… straight into Captain Martin Crieff’s silver eyes.

***

Later that year St Mary Magdalene’s bells announced to the world that Molly Hooper had found her prince at last. He came to her out of the skies, just like she’d imagined, except she’d made a mistake with regard to his vehicle. His curls were a different colour from those she’d given him in her dreams, but as they sparkled in the sunlight that came slanting through the church’s glazed windows Molly wondered why she’d ever thought dark locks attractive. Instead of a billowing coat his dapper small form sported a smart airline captain’s uniform. As she walked down the aisle to where he was waiting for her with his cap tucked neatly under his arm and Arthur at his feet searching for the rings he’d just dropped in his excitement, she knew that both Nowan and Mrs Hudson were right. In the end, every woman was a princess.


End file.
